


lightning in a bottle

by Interconnected_3



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Character Study, First Kiss, M/M, Sparring, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25189861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Interconnected_3/pseuds/Interconnected_3
Summary: Sometimes, Sylvain wonders if he's ever truly left the bottom of that well.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	lightning in a bottle

What is most endearing to Sylvain is His confidence that He is unbreakable. Over and over Sylvain has been cut by that honed confidence, little nicks in his flesh and words that have long stopped stinging, but over and over he lets it happen for at least the blood says he is loved and Sylvain is always eager for wounds. 

_You’re insatiable,_ He said to Sylvain before, _You need to focus on your training._

It’s funny to Sylvain that He says this to him despite it all. Despite the fact that He was no better mere years ago, that He is just as insatiable as Sylvain is, longing to drown out the sound of His own flaws in the chasm parallel to Sylvain’s. It was a chasm filled with simple pleasures, sword slashes and feeding the stray cats around the monastery when He thought no one was watching. But Sylvain has always seen Him; since the moment he had first done so, his eyes were incapable of going anywhere else. 

Sylvain could tear Him apart, rip open all of His past and the weaknesses He was so desperate to hide and spill them out for the world to see. Sylvain could also keep that truth all to himself, wear it as a badge of honor, cradle it in his arms and soothe away the bruises it had left. The choice was his. All it would take is a moment. But Sylvain does neither, because that would kill them both. 

Sylvain smiles, a thin smile he knows isn’t perfect but not quite transparent enough for anyone to comment on, and says it easy as his next breath: _I will_. 

There are a lot of things Sylvain says he will do. Changing is the least likely of them all. 

* * *

  
  


The bottom of the well makes for a terrible burial ground. Though Sylvain doubts it was ever meant to be one, the heaviness in his eyelids and limbs signals it will become as such soon. 

Sylvain’s fingers have scabbed over from his numerous attempts to scale the well, but the cold has soothed the flesh and left it peacefully unfeeling. His muscles are too worn to shiver anymore. Snow is piling on the front of his coat. His throat feels scarred from the first hour’s crying and screaming and now it can hardly draw breath without pain. The light from the top of the well blurs and dims with each excruciating blink.

Thoughts drift in and out of his mind as he stares into his foggy breaths, swirling and dissipating to a place he cannot reach. Even if he were to be saved, would he still be able to feel warmth without melting away entirely? Would he be able to touch anything without splicing the skin of his fingers open? Would he be able to taste anything again, or would his frozen tongue only recognize snow? Either way, he would not be very fun for anyone to be around.

Sylvain abandons the thought. Miklan was on his way to tell everyone Sylvain had died, and in a matter of minutes it wouldn’t even be a lie. 

_Maybe this is right_ , Sylvain thinks. _Maybe this is how things should have been_. 

The light from the top of the well swells and grows larger before his eyes. It hurts. He wishes for it to come for him faster, if only so he would never have to hurt anyone again. 

_Sylvain_ , a voice calls for him from the light, _Sylvain_. 

It’s a panicked, high-pitched voice that cares for him. Sylvain is unsure as to why the voice of his personal reaper sounds as though it belongs to a child; a familiar child, no less. 

_Look at me, Sylvain,_ the reaper says, so Sylvain forces his eyes open.

What he sees waiting for him is a mess of dark hair, and two amber eyes shining with tears. The dear, familiar face is framed by the light behind him, and Sylvain realizes it is not a reaper who has come for him but an angel. 

The angel extends his hand to Sylvain, as far down the well as his small arm can reach. As if by magic, the opening of the well seems to approach ever closer, lifting Sylvain so that he is laughably within the angel’s touch. 

_Hurry,_ begs the angel, _take my hand. Please take my hand, Sylvain._

But Sylvain is tired. His arms are too heavy and numb to lift them. But more than the cold, more than the soreness in his muscles, the angel’s concern is what hurts him the most. Nothing within Sylvain deserves salvation. No matter how well disguised it may be, the mere fact that Sylvain was chosen to exist has caused irreparable damage that would ripple on for years and years and years. And now, just as he is on the brink of being absolved of all the damage in that truth, this angel comes, and for reasons Sylvain can never hope to understand, deems him worthy of life. 

How cruel this angel is. 

“You don’t have to save me,” Sylvain whispers to him. 

The angel keeps reaching for him anyway; Sylvain hears his cries. Always such a crybaby. Always such a tender-hearted, naive crybaby, to try like this even in the face of futility. It all hurts Sylvain. He wishes the angel would point that naivete to someone worth its blessing. 

Sylvain’s vision blurs until the angel’s face becomes a mere smudge. The angel opens his mouth in the shape of one last plea. The world turns white and Sylvain wakes up.

The first breath Sylvain takes pumps so much air into his lungs that he chokes. He jolts up into a sitting position and coughs over and over, just barely able to make out the lines and shapes in his room. As he struggles to control his breathing, the onset of cold autumn air whistles through his open window. Sylvain groans at the sight of his tangled blankets barely clinging to the side of his mattress and trailing onto the floor. No wonder _that_ was what he ended up dreaming of. 

He pushes his hair out of his eyes. How long had it been since he’d recalled that day? All he remembers is losing consciousness in the well and waking up in his bed covered head to toe in bandages. Dying might have been easier in retrospect. 

Sylvain allows a scoff before taking it back; thinking something like that was bound to bring it onto him sooner, given the twisted work of the Goddess and the luck she’s granted him so far. 

The hand tangled in his hair slides to the back of his scalp. There, his fingers find the kiss left by the bottom of the well, still rough and uneven after all these years. 

Sylvain stares out to the newborn colours breaking across the sky. It is five in the morning, and the last dawn Miklan will see before Sylvain kills him. 

* * *

  
  


That night, there is surprisingly little in Sylvain’s mind. The Lance of Ruin is heavier than he anticipated it to be, but in an eerily comfortable way. Its weight lends itself to his hand so naturally it feels as though he could have been wielding it since birth. The thought of it being forged just to fit the grooves of his hand, his and no one else’s, the thought of his entire existence being shaped around holding this damned pulsating weapon, fills him with an emotion he doesn’t want to name. 

Sylvain laughs; a soft, humorless thing. He walks down from the monastery’s second floor and out towards the classrooms. The courtyard is bathed in the blue-green chill of night. Sylvain takes a deep breath in, holds the cool air deep in his lungs. The Lance of Ruin beats once in his hand; Sylvain forces himself to grip it tighter.

It only cost his brother. 

There’s a rustling in the grass. Sylvain turns, and is oddly relieved to see the angel standing there, scowling as ever. His fists are clenched tight.

“Sylvain.”

“Hey,” Sylvain says. “Check out what I finally got my hands on. Pretty creepy up close, don’t you think? You probably won’t believe this, but sometimes, I swear it beats in my hand.”

"Stop with the frivolities,” snaps the angel. “Why are you acting like everything’s fine?”

“Why wouldn’t they be?” Sylvain’s smile feels unnatural on his own face. “Go on a mission, reap the rewards. That’s how missions work-”

“You just killed your brother, Sylvain,” he hisses. 

Sylvain waits for more punishment. It doesn’t come. When he looks up, the angel’s eyes are burning at Sylvain. Not even the weapon in his hand; just Sylvain. What emotion are they putting to flame? Anger? Hatred? Sadness? Sylvain can’t tell. 

“Put him out of his misery, more like,” Sylvain’s eyes fall to their boots. “He had it coming. As heir to house Gautier, I did what was expected of me and picked up the slack. That’s how things were meant to be.”

“You disgust me,” he spits at Sylvain, drawn cold and sharp as steel. “At this rate, you’ll be no better than the boar. Driven mad with power.” 

“That hurts,” says Sylvain. “But I guess that’s warranted, huh? You watched me strike down my brother, when you would give anything to see your own-”

“That’s _enough_ ,” he says, and Sylvain can tell that he’s spliced open an old wound. “Spar with me.”

Sylvain blinks. “What? Now?”

“I’ve always wanted to test my strength against a Relic,” the angel puts a hand over his scabbard, as if beckoning it forward. “If you aren’t going to be honest through your words, then prove it to me through combat. Prove to me that this power was worth the sacrifice.” 

Sylvain lets a sigh out of his nose. Even now his smile doesn’t feel right. Still, he relents: “Who’s the insatiable one now?” 

“Shut up,” the angel drawls out, and starts walking to the training ground. His pace is just as quick and impatient as Sylvain would have expected it to be.

Two minutes later, Sylvain calls out to him from the center of the ring: “You know, something about this doesn’t seem fair. Are you sure you don’t want to put some kind of handicap in place? Maybe bet a meal on it? No shame.” 

The angel sighs and shoves the weapon cart away with a disgruntled palm. “Please. There’s no point in asking to do this if you aren’t going to give a damn.” 

“Fine, fine, I’m givin’,” Sylvain says. The angel readies his feet in front of Sylvain and pulls out the steel sword resting at his waist. _He must be serious_ , Sylvain thinks, but after a moment’s consideration, when is he not? “Even if you lose, you’ll be in the infirmary with a cute girl treating you, and you’ll get to tell her you fought valiantly against a Relic. Thank me later.”

The angel makes the first strike. It is a very angry one, and Sylvain is not sure whether to be hurt or amused. Regardless, he deflects each blow one after the other, each angry strike a question Sylvain has no answer to. So, he deflects them, again and again and again. 

The sword never connects meaningfully; even still, it hurts. 

“What are you doing?” the angel demands after about a minute of pointless blocking. “I told you to give me everything you’ve got. Don’t make me slice you in half without a fight.” 

“I’m trying, I swear,” Sylvain lies, but only halfway, since the other’s form actually is on point today. “And hey, I’ve done worse than this, and I’m still in one piece, aren’t I?”

A sigh. “What are you getting at, you half-wit?”

Sylvain shrugs. “I’m just saying that if you really wanted to strike me down so badly, nothing’s stopping you. Not even the Relic.” 

“If this is your way of trying to placate me, it isn’t working. Just say you’ve wasted my time and leave.” 

Fingers tighten around the lance. So answering questions with questions won’t work, but they never have when it comes to him. Still, coming off the angel’s body is a small, invisible thread; a test. Without much thought, Sylvain pulls at it. 

“I’m thinking of transferring classes, actually,” Sylvain rubs the back of his neck. “I get this feeling that there’s more I can learn from the new professor.”

A beat, and then: “Oh.”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with Professor Hanneman’s lectures,” Sylvain says. He gets the feeling his voice is too loud. “But the man’s not getting any younger, y’know? He can’t teach me how to wield a lance as readily as the Blade Breaker’s protégé would.” 

Sylvain looks up from their boots, which is funny since he hadn’t realized he had been staring. He swears he can see the gears turning in the angel’s head for the shortest second possible; then, the angel slides his sword back into the sheath.

“Do what you want,” he says. “But keep yourself in line. Don’t think Ingrid won’t come to lecture you just because you’re in different classes.” 

An uncomfortable knot ties in Sylvain’s stomach. He smiles anyway, as if to smooth it out. “Have fun with all that reason magic none of us are going to use.” 

“It could be useful. Maybe,” the angel says. He starts to walk past Sylvain, back out into the night they have hidden from. “Don’t be surprised if the boar can fry you to a crisp the next time you meet.” 

The knot turns into a lump that sticks itself in Sylvain’s throat. Before he realizes, the angel’s bony wrist is in his grasp, pathetically loud in its tightness.

“And what about you?” Sylvain asks, as if afraid to be heard.

Silence. The creaking sound of a grasshopper wanders into the air and lingers there, answerless. 

The angel tears his arm away. “I said you can do what you want.” 

Sylvain watches the doors give a final groan and slam shut in his absence. Sylvain, alone in the training hall, feels the lance pulse in his hand, hears the creaking grasshopper give no answers. He lets it fill his ears.

* * *

With only a week left until Sylvain’s transfer, Professor Hanneman’s lectures seem farther away than ever. Sylvain can vaguely remember him saying something about a basic experiment that will test one’s reason magic capabilities, and maybe something else about only needing to use a finger, but the sound of pouring rain pattering against the classroom’s roof seems to drown out all other coherence. 

However, Sylvain is brought back to earth when Professor Hanneman lights a spark of thunder magic with a gloved finger and swiftly encloses it into a bottle. As he holds the sealed bottle in his palm, the thunder continues to tumble and flash and bounce off the walls. 

It should be obvious what the point of the experiment is; the stronger your compatibility with reason magic, the longer the thunder spell will remain active inside the bottle. Instead, Sylvain’s mind chooses to remember the lightning he once saw strike during the daytime. It was like a line of blue liquid spilling across the sky, so quick and harsh in its vibrance he could have missed it had he blinked. And just as quickly as it had lit up the sky, the brilliance died, leaving nothing but a relentless rain in its wake. Sylvain remembers the feeling well. That brief moment had all but captivated him since childhood. 

In the middle of a dormant day, a single flash of brilliance, baring its fangs for the shortest second possible; the next, a rumble of rain, the brooding of the clouds, grey, grey, grey until the next flash would tear through them again. 

Sylvain’s eyes find the angel sitting a table away, trying and failing to stifle a yawn. 

It seems only natural for Sylvain to be so captivated by lightning that could tear him apart.

“Very well done, Sylvain,” Professor Hanneman’s eyes sparkle behind his glasses, fixated only on the sparks of thunder Sylvain has managed to keep alive inside his own bottle. “Might you have an innate talent for reason magic? We simply must see just how far your potential lies!” 

“It’s no big deal, professor,” Sylvain says. 

For once, he means it; the thunder feels as good as dead in his hands. 

* * *

  
  


The night before Sylvain’s transfer is complete, he passes through the school courtyard from the market gates. He doesn’t remember the specifics of what had happened; just an angry sting on his cheek, tears lingering on his fingers, and a throbbing in his head. _Maybe trying to wipe her tears away while she was still angry wasn’t the right move_ , Sylvain thinks, despite not recalling ever saying her name. That might have had something to do with it. Or maybe all the names and faces were starting to blur into one amorphous entity now; either way, Sylvain is quick to push it aside. When he turns the corner towards the dormitories, he sees a glow of lit torches flickering from behind the training hall’s doors.

Sylvain hesitates. Though he’s done well to keep out of the angel’s line of orbit since that night in the training hall, his time fell naturally into the laps of girls, funny, temperamental playthings they were. Admittedly he may have been overindulging a _bit_ (Ingrid made sure to tell him so and give him another smack over the head), but overindulgence seemed a fair price to pay in the grand scheme of Sylvain’s test. 

Sylvain takes a breath. He had already pulled the string loose and walked this far with it. At this point he has nothing more to lose. His feet carry him to the doors, his tearstained hands push them open in tandem. 

Just as he thought, there stands the angel, jabbing at a training dummy under the dim lights with his form somehow even more rigid than usual. The sight almost comforts Sylvain until he remembers they haven’t spoken for the better part of a week. Although Sylvain has many words at his disposal, always has, the right ones won’t seem to find his lips. Or rather, there’s none to be said. 

Luckily, the angel fills in the space for him, whipping around with alarm in the amber eyes for just a moment until he realizes. Immediately his shoulders relax, but only by a fraction. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice not quite unkind. 

“Wish I could ask myself the same thing,” Sylvain chuckles. “Just had a feeling you’d be here.”

For a moment, neither of them speak. Sylvain isn’t sure if a grasshopper has returned to creak at them or if his mind has conjured it for the sake of filling the air. Either way, relief finds him for a second time when the angel speaks up again:

“Spar with me.”

“Huh? Now? Not even a ‘how are you’ to get things started?”

“I know we’re not here for small talk,” the angel says. “Whatever you have to say, you can tell me through sparring.” 

“Alright, alright,” Sylvain holds his hands up in defeat. “But I’ve got no Relic on me today. Didn’t you say you weren’t gonna slice me in half without a fight?”

“It’s fine,” the speed of his response surprises Sylvain. “Use what you normally would.” 

Giving a nod of confirmation, Sylvain’s thoughts roll along with the motion as he moves to retrieve a training lance. It could just be the grasshopper-conjuring mind of his at play again, but the thread is fraying a bit, enough for just a bit of tenderness to show. Sylvain wonders briefly if savoring it would be a sin. 

“I’m ready,” Sylvain says to him, lance poised in a defensive stance. “First move’s all yours.”

The angel nods, a sign of either tenderness or defeat in finding words. He strikes, and Sylvain can feel from the slight pulling back in his moves that these are much less angry than last time. However, it’s still the same uncomplicated dance; he strikes, Sylvain deflects, an uncomplicated, uncomfortable equilibrium. They’ve sparred for years, and Sylvain is no fool. He knows the angel well enough to know where he’s going to aim his jabs, when he’ll make his feints, when he’ll attempt to make a parry after a certain size of an opening. Sylvain makes a few easy strikes of his own, but the angel’s attacks grow more and more frustrated as the dance drags on. Finally, he draws his sword back and clenches it tight at his side. 

“What’s wrong with you?” he growls, amber eyes burning once again. “Why aren’t you attacking?” 

“I am,” Sylvain lets out a breath and rests his lance on the ground. “You’re giving me a run for my money, here.” 

“I’m not,” he says, matter-of-fact. “I’ve left openings way wider than you would have normally let me get away with.” His eyes narrow. “You’re hiding something, aren’t you?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,” Sylvain tuts. “A little too soon to be throwing the accusations around, don’t you think? I’ve just had a long day. I wouldn’t be surprised if my punish game isn’t up to par with yours.” 

The angel’s glare lowers to burn into their boots. Sylvain speaks before the creaking grasshopper can reach his ears:

“And so what if you left an opening or three?” Sylvain smiles a humorless smile to the ground. “I’m not going to kill you.” 

For some reason, his words spark a flame in the angel’s eyes, an angry, upset wildfire rising to pierce through Sylvain and everything he has ever done. For some reason, Sylvain is happy to see it, happy even when the angel lunges at him with an unannounced jab he doesn’t deflect in time, happy even when he loses his balance and they end up a tangled mess of limbs and splintered weapons on the floor. 

Sylvain’s world is spinning. When he opens his eyes, he sees the rare sight of amber staring back at him. 

All at once, Sylvain is brought back to the bottom of the well. The loosening locks of messy hair, the pleading amber, the dear, familiar face framed by a halo of swelling light, and he realizes that this is the closest to divinity he has ever felt. In this moment Sylvain wants nothing more than to reach out, touch the precious face, tuck back the dark hair and tell the pleading eyes they do not have to burn for him. The choice is his. All it would take is a moment. But Sylvain does nothing, because to do anything would kill them both. 

Sylvain tries to smile. “Hey.”

The angel tangles his fingers in Sylvain’s collar and pulls. Sylvain hears a snapping of thread first, then feels the pair of lips pushing against him. 

A kiss. A longing, pleading, desperate kiss. 

The angel’s lips are rougher than Sylvain would have imagined, yet some part of him isn’t surprised. Rough and dry, tasting vaguely of the one tea he enjoys, and cruel. Cruel enough to not wait for Sylvain’s response, cruel enough to drag him out of the well and decide that he is worth salvation. 

_This is it_ , Sylvain realizes, _this is my salvation_. 

Yet he lies stock-still on the floor against his salvation, unable to move, unable to kiss him back, because to love him would mean tearing them apart from the inside and killing them both. 

_Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad._

As quickly as that thought comes to pass, the lightning fades, its warmth and brilliance retreating once more, and the angel is gone. The last thing Sylvain sees of him is a glow of red dusting the tips of his ears. 

The slamming of the doors is ear-shattering, the creaking of the grasshopper heartbreaking. Sylvain lies there stock-still on the floor, watches the lights blur above his eyes and feels the tears spill into the crevices of his ears. His lips burn for the rest of the night. 

* * *

  
  


Three days after Sylvain’s transfer, more meaningless chatter squeezes itself into his ears. The girls from his new class have found him more than interesting, asking about what Faerghus winters are like or how to befriend His Highness and how well he’s adjusting to interacting with the different cultures in his class. The ease of Sylvain’s answers gives him a sense of relief, yet also a twinge of alarm. 

It’s good, he says, it’s fine, I love the subjects, love the Professor, can’t wait to see what else we’ll learn. 

Lies, all of it. Not a day has passed where he hasn’t thought of the angel coming to bless him for just a moment, to absolve him of the pain he hadn’t known he had hidden away. Not a day has passed where he hasn’t entertained the thought that they would either die together or alternatively take comfort in being the sword at each other’s throats. It’s an unspoken oath between them, yet another one of their dances of knowing, yet pretending not to, and Sylvain knows he will repeat the steps until he dies. 

The faces of the girls blur together. A familiar voice appears from behind him.

“Sylvain.”

Sylvain smiles his opaque smile, a sad, humorless thing, and turns to see his angel.

“Felix.”

**Author's Note:**

> //reposted to remove a duplicate passage + bump again oops ;w; thank you for reading!


End file.
